


Cars and crimes

by NoPlastic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoPlastic/pseuds/NoPlastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock brings some action into Liz Smith's driving school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cars and crimes

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to DrWhoLocked for beta and some very helpful suggestions. If there are still mistakes left they're entirely my fault. Have fun reading.

When the posh man walked into the office, dressed in a corduroy suit and twiddling with an umbrella, Liz knew she was in trouble. If she had known exactly how much trouble, she would have refused to talk to him right from the beginning. But not being familiar with the Holmes brothers yet, she just smiled at the possible new client and hoped for the best.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man introduced himself as he approached the desk and held out his hand. “You’re Mrs Smith, I assume. Good evening.”

Liz nodded and reached over the desk to shake his hand. “Welcome, Mr Holmes. What can I do for you?”

Holmes curved his lips into a friendly smile that didn’t even remotely reach his eyes and stepped aside. Liz wasn’t sure if she would even have noticed the pimply-faced teenager in Mr Holmes’ wake if it hadn’t been for the wild mop of curly dark hair on the younger man’s head. The boy’s eyes kept darting back and forth across the room as if he was searching for something. A film of sweat covered his forehead, and his fingers were twitching nervously. Drugs, Liz concluded. Based on experiences with similar clients she was sure that the teenager was on a reintegration programme and the other man had to be his caretaker.

“Not for me personally,” He placed his hand on the teenager’s back and shoved him towards the desk. “For my brother.”

Involuntarily Liz’s eyebrows shot up at that. Apart from the unsettlingly piercing way in which they both seemed to study their surroundings, the young man looked nothing like the other Holmes. No polished shoes, no suit, no tie. Instead he was wearing a plain (though surely expensive) black shirt, a coat much too warm for the weather and a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Liz found her conclusion supported that he was the black sheep of the family, and definitely not the kind of client she would readily accept.

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft Holmes said as if he had read her thoughts (and something about him convinced Liz that was definitely possible). “We subjected him to a …” He paused momentarily and wrinkled his nose. “… a specific test just yesterday, and according to the result there is nothing that would get in the way of his ability to drive a car.”

“You’re currently teaching an impostor, an adulterer and two – no, three – recovering alcoholics,” the younger Holmes spoke up for the first time. His voice was a little hoarse and sounded monotonous. “Why would you have a problem with me?”

“How can you –“ Liz began, but then she decided to drop the subject. She was good at reading people and knew it was entirely plausible that others could be even better at it. The older Holmes didn’t look as if he was willing to give his secrets away, and the younger was staring at his shoes now, moping as if he felt genuinely hurt at the prospect of being rejected. Liz decided to play for time.  
“Well, fine,” she sighed. “Let’s go to the car and give it a try – but don’t think I’m persuaded yet.”

*

“He won’t need any lessons,” Mycroft Holmes instructed as Liz opened the passenger door of the driving school VW. His brother – Sherlock – was already in the car, staring out the windscreen, arms crossed in front of his chest. He’d removed his ridiculous coat and carelessly thrown it into the back seat where it gave the scary impression of a dead person lying in the back of the car.

“And no theory test either,” the older Holmes continued. “My brother has the brains of a highly educated scientist. He has studied the construction and functional principle of cars and similar vehicles in great detail under my supervision over the past couple of days. He knows how to operate a car, as you will see. Just give him an appointment for the driving test, he’ll pass, get his licence, and you’ll be rid of him.”

The man seemed to be trying his best to be polite, but his friendliness was strained – torn between concern for his brother and a hurry to get back to his obviously important work. His faked smiles made a shiver run down Liz’s spine. Mycroft Holmes ‘held a minor position in the British Government,’ as he had said – probably the Queen’s right hand or something. However, giving his brother a driver’s licence without any lessons or a theory test was against the law. She wasn’t going to risk her job for this.

“No, Mr Holmes,” she protested. “That’s impossible. Listen, I’m not –“

“I can guarantee that you won’t be charged with it,” Holmes interrupted with the same glued-on smile he had been wearing all the time, only it was now dangerously crooked at the edges. Before Liz could protest again he added, “There will be a generous reward.”

“A reward,” Liz echoed sarcastically and snorted. “You mean I’ll be paid for breaking the law.”

“More or less,” Holmes murmured, absently straightening his tie. “You’d like to have a car with a little more class than this shabby old VW, wouldn’t you?” Disdainfully he tapped his umbrella against the driving school car. “A better one would surely attract more clients.”

Liz felt mildly insulted, but of course Mr Holmes wasn’t wrong.

“Oh, yes, a Mercedes would be nice,” she tried to set the price high, expecting a long tough bargaining over her payment. But Holmes just nodded, produced a notebook and pen from his pocket and scribbled one or two words in it.

“Well, I trust your words, Mr Holmes,” Liz conceded when the following silence started to make her nervous. “But still – British Government aside – this is _my_ driving school. There are certain rules you and your brother have to go by, I’m afraid.”

She coughed awkwardly.

“First of all, I need a written and signed confirmation that this isn’t going to get me into any trouble legally. And” – she pointed into the car where the other Holmes was still pouting – “I’m going to test your brother. Alone. You can leave now. I’ll let him drive me around a bit, and if I’m convinced he’s ready for a real driving test, I’ll give him an appointment. However, he’ll have to wait a month until he can take the test.” Liz was aware she was talking nonsense, but setting some terms made her feel better, and she had a feeling that the timespan of a month was anything but a bad idea. “If you agree with these conditions, I’m ready to do what you ask of me.”

Mr Holmes furrowed his brow as if pondering how to reply to this, but then he smiled with something that Liz would have interpreted as relief in any other person. On Holmes’ face it just looked like a mask.

“Thank you very much, Mrs Smith,” he said and held out his hand again. “I’ll set up a confirmation and have it handed to you as soon as possible.”

“Then you should go now,” Liz said, taking Holmes’ hand while internally shaking her head at what she was agreeing to. “I prefer to work with my clients alone.”

*

After Mycroft had left, Liz got into the car with a sigh and fastened her seatbelt.

“Fine, Sherlock,” she began. “We call each other by our first names here, by the way – that’s kind of a tradition. I am Liz.” She held out her hand with a jovial smile. Sherlock kept his arms crossed in front of his chest and said nothing. He was tense. His back had to be aching from sitting up straight without making use of the driver seat’s backrest. There was still sweat on his face and wet patches on his shirt under his armpits.

“Well,” Liz said and turned the failed handshake into a slap on Sherlock’s shoulder with feigned enthusiasm. “Then show me that you can drive.”

The young man tensed up even more (if that was possible). His face was a mask.  
“I don’t …” he began but then broke off.

“Yes?” Liz said after a while when no further reactions came, trying to sound patient. No matter how many prejudices she had against this boy, she told herself, this was a teacher-student situation where she had to be professional.

Still she couldn’t help feeling a little triumph when Sherlock took a deep breath, cleared his throat and confessed, “I don’t know how to drive.”

“Oh, but your brother told me you had studied cars and everything about them.”

“Yes, I have,” he said. “But then I deleted it.”

“Deleted it?” Liz echoed, trying to process the information. “What do you mean?”

“Deleted means deleted,” the young man sighed. “Do keep up. I’m a consulting detective,” he explained, as if that made any sense. With his right hand he began to dig in his trouser pocket. Liz almost expected him to draw out a business card – _Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective_ – but instead he produced a cigarette and a box of matches.

“I’m currently solving a crime, a particularly tricky case that needs all my focus and brain power. It’s bad enough that I have to spend my precious time in your boring car.” He spat the last word out as if the mere existence of something as mundane as a car was insulting to him. “I decided that all the information about driving was unworthy of taking up space in my mind palace, so I used a couple of meditation techniques to remove it.” He lifted his hand, cigarette between middle and index finger, in front of Liz’s face and snapped his fingers. “Gone.”

He turned away from her with his jaw clenched and a haunted look in his eyes.

“Don’t tell my brother.”

“You’re afraid that he’ll make fun of you?” Liz chuckled.

“He’ll tell mummy,” Sherlock said in such a perfect impression of a ten-year-old that Liz couldn’t help giggling. “They threatened to have me arrested if I don’t play by the rules,” he added in a more serious tone. “I admit there are a couple of things that could be used against me, you know, and they all think they’re cleverer than me.”

There were indeed cleverer things than using drugs, so Mycroft and mummy surely had a point there, but Liz felt this wasn’t the right time to remind Sherlock of it.

Wordlessly she watched him strike a match and put the cigarette between his lips, unsuccessfully trying to hide the trembling of his hands.  
“Every idiot knows how to drive,” he mumbled. “It can’t be that hard. Give me a lesson and I’ll learn it in no time.”

“Ok then,” Liz assented. “I’ll give you a chance.” She paused as if to think for a moment. “But you’re not high on something, are you?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped curtly. “Unfortunately not.”

“Are you able to concentrate at all?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Just one more thing,” Liz reached over and snatched the cigarette out from between Sherlock’s lips. “No smoking.”

The teenager rolled his eyes and put on an indignant frown, but acquiesced.

“Fine.” Liz heaved a sigh and prepared mentally for a challenging lesson. “Depress the clutch, engage first gear and turn the key.”  
Sherlock gave her a questioning look.  
“It doesn’t have automatic transmission,” she explained.  
Sherlock’s gaze turned even more questioning.  
“Here”, Liz said mildly amused, pointing at the gear box.

“Ah.” This little utterance was the only comment Liz would hear from her student for a long time. After that he remained silent, following her instructions obediently while at the same time appearing to be totally lost in thought. Although it was obvious that the “deletion” he had talked about had been very radical – in fact he knew absolutely nothing about cars – he managed within the first lesson to become such a good driver that Liz felt absolutely comfortable with him at the wheel. Too comfortable, she will think later in hindsight when she will regret ever having allowed a Holmes into her office.

*

“Now back into the driveway again,” Liz said 50 minutes later. “Put the car in first gear, and –“

“Lights off, switch off the ignition, and put on the handbrake,” Sherlock continued her sentence while doing the described actions.

“Correct,” Liz praised her student. “You really are a fast learner. Just a few more lessons and you’ll be able to pass the test without any problems.”

“Even more lessons?” Sherlock frowned. “That’s impossible. I have to focus on the case, and my –“

“Come back tomorrow evening,” Liz said emphatically. She put her hand on Sherlock’s arm to give him a reassuring squeeze. Through the fabric of his shirt his skin felt cold and his muscles tensed against the friendly gesture. “You need a couple more lessons. I didn’t suggest the timespan of a month for no reason, you know, we really need it to prepare you properly. We don’t have to tell your brother.”

A small smile appeared on Sherlock’s face. The thought of doing something behind his brother’s back seemed to amuse him. His eyes had been fixed on the steering wheel ever since he’d stopped the car, but now he finally turned around and focused on Liz’s face. He appeared healthier already than before the lesson – the sweat had dried from his face and his fingers had stopped trembling.

“We have the whole month. You can come in the evenings. I’ll give you lessons for free as a special favour.”

Sherlock had already loosened his seatbelt and begun to get his long legs out of the car. Now he hesitated. “Why would you want to do that for me?” he asked warily, as if he couldn’t believe that somebody would just be nice to him.

“I’ve been asking myself that same question,” she said and winked at him. Sherlock surprisingly grinned at this. .  
“Perhaps,” Liz said with a shrug, “because I have an annoying brother too who thinks he knows everything better?”

The teenager blinked a couple of times, then nodded curtly, got out of the car and left.

*

Liz didn’t honestly expect him to come back the next day. She had some experience with drug addicts and knew that they were usually unreliable – and this one was haughty and arrogant in addition to that. Surely he wouldn’t turn up.  
But he did.  
As Liz was waiting in the driveway after work, leaning against the VW, she was stunned to see Sherlock arrive five minutes early. The carrion-like stench he brought with him, however, would never come out of the seat upholstery. He had worked in a mortuary, the young man explained – an internship perhaps, Liz thought. Who on earth gave kids such horrible work placements?

“I had to take the Tube to get here,” Sherlock complained. “None of the cabs would take me.”

Liz nodded, full of empathy for the taxi drivers and the poor people on the Tube, and pondered wearing a nose clip to the next lesson.

Their driving lessons continued throughout the month, usually in the early evening hours, or at night to practice driving in the dark. Sherlock was a strange boy, but reliable and fast learning. Over time he began to look healthier. His acne got better and his motions became more confident and precise. Sometimes he even pretended to be interested in Liz’s small talk. On other days he didn’t say a word at all and didn’t respond to any questions, deeply lost in thought, just sitting through the lesson doing what was asked of him. He also became thinner and thinner because he refused to eat, as he once stated when Liz asked him about it. The process of digestion would slow down his mind, he claimed, and he was obviously very busy.

“Be glad that I force myself to sleep a couple of hours each night so I can still attend your lessons,” he said, pointing at the dark shadows under his eyes. “Normally I wouldn’t do that when I’m on a case.”

“What case?” Liz asked curiously, but she never got an answer.

Sometimes Sherlock was extremely talkative. Liz would ask him one innocent question about his daily routine and be drowned in a flood of graphic descriptions of dead bodies, names of famous serial killers and lectures about police work. Obviously the young man took his made-up detective stories very seriously.

*

“Welcome to our final lesson,” Liz said cheerily as she got into the VW on the last day of April. Your driving test is tomorrow morning at eight. Are you nervous?” She smiled.

Sherlock kept staring through the windscreen, his hands lying loosely – almost lifeless – on the steering wheel.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Finally he turned around, and his eyes widened momentarily as if he had noticed her presence for the first time. His face was extremely pale, the remaining acne spots on his chin and his cheeks fiery red.

“Did you say something? Can we start?” he growled impatiently.

His voice didn’t seem to be a teenager’s anymore, but rather the voice of a moody, brooding, fairly intimidating adult. Involuntarily Liz flinched a bit in her seat.

“Yes, ok, let’s start,” she murmured with slight irritation. Sherlock had already started the engine and let the car roll from the driveway onto the street. “Turn left and then right on the main street. Let’s go straight into the rush hour traffic. You need practice.”

While obediently following her instructions, Sherlock kept staring at the London streets in front of him, his eyes grey and cloudy as the sky.

“Sherlock, you _must_ remember to check the door mirror and look over your shoulder before the turn,” she reminded him in a voice of strained patience. “Sure you have to keep your eyes on the street, but it’s not just what’s in front, you also have to –“

“There he is!” Sherlock suddenly sat up, his eyes snapped into focus and his cheeks turned pink with excitement.

“There is who?” Liz hadn’t even finished the question when Sherlock slammed down the accelerator. The engine roared and the car shot forward.

“The killer,” he exclaimed. “I identified him yesterday but he escaped the police. I searched for him all night and the better part of today and couldn’t find him.”

He broke into a creepily triumphant laugh.

“You see that old blue BMW there?” he asked as he merged into the line of cars in front of the next traffic lights, not being very considerate of the other traffic participants. “That’s his car.”

“Sherlock,” Liz warned. “Watch out for the pedestrians. And stop driving so close to the car in front of you.”

Her fingers closed around the handgrip, her foot hovering over the brake pedal, just in case.

“This is a driving lesson, not a –“

She didn’t even manage to speak the words “car chase” before Sherlock floored the accelerator as the traffic lights turned to green. He veered into the small space between two oncoming cars, then back into the lane. With a yelling and wildly flailing Liz next to him, he began to overtake the cars in front of them at full speed. When he steered back onto the opposite lane for the fourth time and nearly crashed into a truck, Liz resorted to high-pitched screaming. With her eyes squeezed shut she heard the engine roar over the sound of her own voice and felt the violent left-to-right and back-and-forth of the VW.

“Sherlock! Stop!”

She could as well have yelled at a brick wall. Sherlock didn’t even slow down, determined to pursue the alleged suspect’s BMW, giggling feverishly. Making use of the brake pedal now would only have caused an accident.

“Fuck,” Liz cursed for probably the first time in her well-educated life and held on to the handgrip even tighter.

“Stop it,” she begged. “Stop it, you lunatic, there is no killer, this is not your fantasy world, you fucking drug addicted _madman!”_

But all her shouting and cursing was ignored. Sherlock yanked the wheel around and overtook another three cars. How he managed to avoid a collision with the police car on the oncoming lane was beyond Liz.

_Police? … Police!_

She whipped her head around to look for what she thought she had seen. A quick check in the rear view mirror confirmed that there was a police car. It had already turned around and started following them.

“Did you just put the cops onto us? … Oh!”

The car spun out of control as Sherlock took a turning with too much force – or so it seemed. Liz froze in horror and disbelief when she realised he had done it _on purpose._ They skidded across a part of the pedestrian crossing, got past another five cars and stuck right on the heels of the alleged criminal’s BMW.

The BMW’s driver, meanwhile, aware of being followed, accelerated to full speed and began similarly hazardous overtaking manoeuvres.

Liz’s screams got stuck in her throat as the VW dashed from Coventry Street onto Piccadilly Circus. Thankfully the pedestrians were clever enough to realise what was going on and fled from the streets, while Sherlock disregarded every single traffic light and raced after the BMW.

A flock of pigeons took flight with alarmed cooing as the VW’s tail swung off another time and the car slid towards Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain. Sherlock chuckled grimly, obviously having fun. He grasped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles went white and jerked it violently to the right.

Liz’s last perceptions were a storm of pigeon feathers in front of Criterion Theatre and a flash of light. Her voice finally functioned again and she heard herself squeal as the VW spun and jolted like a rollercoaster ride.

Then everything came to a halt and turned black.

*

As the police sirens got louder, they finally broke through the silence and darkness in Liz’s head. She didn’t dare move at first, staying curled up on the passenger seat in fear of what might be happening around her. When the door was yanked open she shrieked – but then a polite voice said soothing words to her and put a blanket around her shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Mrs Smith.” The policeman smiled when she opened her eyes to meet his. “Everything’s under control.”

“How do you know my name?” Liz demanded to know, still feeling confused and wary.

“It’s in the driving school’s logo on the side of the car,” the man explained patiently. He held out his hand.

“Detective Sergeant Lestrade,” he introduced himself. “Come on – get out of the car so the paramedics can have a look at you. You’re in shock. Does anything hurt?”

“I’m not in shock,” Liz protested and tried to get up, but for some reason her knees couldn’t carry her weight. Had the Detective Sergeant not caught her and put his arm around her, she would have landed face down on the pavement.

“Ok, maybe a little bit in shock,” she admitted.

Lestrade smiled and led her with gentle support towards an ambulance waiting nearby.

Dusk was approaching. The sirens had finally been turned off, and the pigeons began to gather on the pavement again. Silently the blue lights kept flashing, intermittently turning the whole scene from grey to blue and back.

Piccadilly Circus was full of policemen and paramedics. A couple of shocked, pale-faced civilians were being attended to. Onlookers had been cordoned off. From the corner of her eye Liz saw cameras flashing, so obviously the press was already there as well.

“Where is Sherlock?” she asked. The madman in the dark coat was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, I guess he’s either still getting on my colleagues’ nerves, or already back at his brother’s house, brooding over the next case,” Lestrade answered. “No, probably still talking to my colleagues. He does love praise and admiration.” He rolled his eyes.

“Admiration?” Liz perked up her eyebrows. “He went on a car chase and pursued some probably innocent man he believed was a criminal!”

“Not innocent at all,” Lestrade replied calmly. “That man was indeed a criminal. He killed five students on the UCL campus. I suppose you’ve heard of the case?”

“The Campus Slayer? Yes, sure, it was all over the papers, but –“

“Sherlock solved the case and identified the killer yesterday, but then the bastard stole a car and escaped.”

The Detective Sergeant paused and shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m actually not supposed to give you this much information, but it will be in the papers tomorrow anyway, so … Well, we were sure the murderer had taken a Chevrolet and fled to Birmingham, where he lived as a child. But Sherlock kept insisting the stolen car had been a BMW, based on some tiny piece of a leaf or something that he had found at a crime scene and analysed in the lab. Nobody believed him, but obviously he was right. The killer, sure he was safe, stayed in London until this afternoon. Then he left his hiding place and tried to flee in a direction he thought we would never find him. But he hadn’t reckoned with Sherlock. Shortly before going to your driving lesson, Sherlock had somehow figured out what the stolen car’s registration number was. Then he saw it in the street and … You know the rest of the story.”

They arrived at the ambulance where the paramedic was waiting.

“What happened in the end?” Liz blushed, beginning to feel a little ashamed of having passed out in the car. “I can’t remember when Sherlock stopped and got out.”

“He blocked the other driver’s way,” the Detective Sergeant told her while watching the paramedic apply a blood pressure cuff to Liz’s arm. “Both Sherlock and the killer jumped out of their cars and had another chase on foot. Sherlock was faster. That madman was lucky the killer wasn’t carrying his gun.” Lestrade shook his head and snorted. “The git didn’t even consider that he might get hurt.”

“Is he alright?” Despite the trouble he had put her through, the thought of Sherlock being severely injured pulled at Liz’s heartstrings.

“Well, the murderer did try to defend himself with a knife, but then we arrived and took the matter in our professional hands.”

Liz had to bite back a giggle when Lestrade visibly puffed himself up at that.

“Sherlock was only slightly injured – a long but superficial cut.” He chuckled. “A brilliant bastard, that boy. I suggest you give him his driving licence at once.”

“What? Are you mad? He drove like a lunatic.”

“Yes, but you’ve got to admit he has good control over the vehicle. My young colleagues Anderson and Donovan couldn’t do any better in a breakneck crazy car chase.”

Liz’s jaw dropped and she stared at Lestrade in disbelief until he winked at her and they both burst out laughing.

“Not without a test,” Liz replied after she’d halfway recovered, already in horror of getting into a car with Sherlock again.

“He’ll get into some trouble with his brother, I suppose,” Lestrade mused, scratching his head. The Detective Sergeant was actually quite nice, Liz decided.

“This was the worst experience of a driving lesson I’ve ever had,” she sighed. “Except maybe that one lesson with John Watson.”

“John who?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she waved it off. “I threw him out after twenty minutes. I bet to this day he still doesn’t have a licence.”

Lestrade snorted. He was not only nice, Liz found, but also good looking. Better even than the PE teacher she had been fancying for the past few months.

“When all this is over, and we can talk to each other as plain civilians again,” she said, automatically taking on a flirting pose. “How about you come over to my place for a cup of tea?”

*

“Goodbye, Mr Miller.” Liz waved to her last client of the day, locked the door to her office and went outside.

It had been two weeks since she had last seen either of the Holmes brothers, and she wasn’t exactly unhappy about it.

Except for one little slip at reversing into a parking space, Sherlock had passed his driving test without any trouble.

The only thing Liz _was_ unhappy about was the prospect of having to contact Mycroft Holmes again because he still hadn’t honoured his promises to her. Perhaps she would never get the Mercedes after all. She wasn’t even sure if she didn’t prefer to voluntarily sacrifice her reward just to get Holmes out of her mind and live in peace.

Brooding over this, she nearly stumbled backwards when she arrived on the pavement, turned around and saw, instead of the old VW, a black Jaguar of the newest model standing in the driveway.

After two minutes of shock in which she just stood there staring at the shiny vehicle, she finally managed to get her legs working again and approached it. There was nobody to be seen inside or outside of the car, but for some reason Liz felt as if she was being observed. However, the feeling subsided after she had picked up the keys from the ground in front of the car.

With a smooth click the doors opened and Liz got inside. While she carefully gripped the steering wheel and imagined how the engine would sound and how amazing driving this thing would feel, she noticed a small white sticky note on the dashboard. It said:

_Why bother with a boring Mercedes when you can have a Jaguar?_

_SH_

Under the scribble there was a little arrow that indicated the paper should be turned. So Liz peeled the note off the dashboard. Under a drawing of a ridiculous yellow smiley, the backside read:

_In case you ever need help (if you get killed, for example), you know who to consult._

_Sherlock_

“That boy is totally crazy,” Liz concluded with a more or less amused smile. “But perhaps he’s not such a bad person after all.”

In fairness it had to be said that the incident with Sherlock had many positive effects on Liz’s work (the number of clients increased significantly after it got about that she would let them drive the Jaguar once in a while), her finances (Mycroft did pay her eventually), and even her love life (the Detective Sergeant turned out to be really nice indeed).

However, when she received a request from Sherlock two years later asking her to train him for a motorcycle licence, she politely refused.


End file.
